That Kind of Innocence
by Jet
Summary: Something Wicked Tag. Dean POV. I thought I’d long since given up wondering at the injustice of it all. Turns out I was wrong.


Somewhere on a stretch of deserted highway in Nowhere, Indiana it occurred to me that I almost lost him today. Five simple words, but their impact left me shaking and struggling to hold it together in a way that I haven't experienced in a long time. When that shtriga threw me against the cabinet it could have been all over right then. A little more force, a little less rotation, a marginally softer head…any number of factors could have added up to a more significant injury, more prolonged blackout; more time for the shtriga to feed off my brother and my world to fall apart around me.

It couldn't have been more than twenty or thirty seconds really. Though it felt like eternity before I was able to force myself to move. I remember thinking how fucking cruel it was that your memory takes these moments of emotional distress and uses them as opportunities to bombard you with long repressed memories of failure and tragedy. Because I swear, there in Michael's room at age twenty-seven, I looked up to see that wrinkled bastard feeding off of a six year old Sammy. For those few precious seconds it took me to sort reality from memory I froze, I fucking froze. Again.

I almost let my little brother go without a fight. As a ten year old, despite being only a child myself and completely unprepared to face real evil alone, I loathed myself for months, even years after the fact. At twenty-seven, after all the shit I've seen, it's inexcusable.

In those few seconds today, between the gunshot and Sam's gasping breath, I relived every single close call he's experienced; every time I'd thought I was too late or too slow or too helpless to save him; hundreds of memories of Sammy, broken, bleeding, lifeless. I almost didn't register his gasp, almost got lost in the grief of forgotten moments and it was a physical shock to watch him stumble up and move behind me. Even emptying the clip into the rotten rags that had once been the shtriga didn't help to erase those memories. I can still see them behind my eyelids when I close my eyes.

God, my hand is shaking on the steering wheel as the memory brings a touch of panic, even hours later, and I have to glance over to the passenger seat just to be sure. He is staring blankly out the passenger window, and I can't quite place the look in his eyes. It's longing and sorrow, cynicism and hatred, all rolled into one and I know he's thinking about Mom, about Jessica. About non-existent innocence and shattered dreams. It makes me want to cry, and _that_ makes me want to hurt something.

_Sometimes I wish that I could have that kind of innocence._

His words. Spoken outside of another nameless motel, in another nowhere town. Somewhere inside me I felt something break in response to the longing in his voice. I thought I'd long since given up wondering at the injustice of it all. Turns out I was wrong.

I've spent his whole life trying to protect him. Spent countless hours patching up scraped knees, bruised egos and broken hearts. Fought bullies and demons and unspeakable evil in his defense. Swallowed my pride, sacrificed peace of mind to let him walk away, to give him a chance at something _more_. Watched from the shadows when he did find that something -- just to make sure, then turned around and helped him pick up the pieces when it all came crashing down. But this, how do you fix this? This is so much more than a split lip, or a monster under the bed. There is nothing here for me to kill or hurt to make this better, nothing to punish for hurting my brother.

This is birthday parties and ice cream cake; catching frogs and building forts; hide and seek and water fights and hours playing with a puppy. It's camping trips and smores; ghost stories at the fire told to frighten not instruct; junior high dances and pretty girls. It's stability, normality; with a nine to five and a white picket fence and wives and children; peewee soccer and barbeques; block parties and Christmas carols and _family_. It's everything he's never had; everything he thought he might have had and everything he knows he'll never get to have. And how exactly do you go on pretending that everything is okay in the world when something like this smacks you right in the face with the wrongness of it all?

_If it means anything, sometimes I wish you could too._

My words. Spoken in an effort to banish demons and make everything all right. God, how fucking useless and trite do they sound when it's my little brother, my Sammy, standing there with his heart on his sleeve and that broken look in his eyes, begging me to make the pain go away. And damn if I don't feel like a bastard for not being able to give him the salvation he seeks. It hurts to know that there are some things I can't protect him from, some wrongs I can't make right again no matter how badly I want to.

I pride myself on my ability to roll with the punches, so to speak, and I've never spent much time dwelling on what ifs and could-have-beens for myself. Watching Sam though, these past few months, watching him struggle to pick up the pieces and move forward into a life he never asked for or wanted, a part of me breaks with him every time he gets knocked down and as it gets harder each time to bring him back, to bring Sammy back. I can survive a lot of things, but I don't think I could survive watching my Sammy self-destruct like this. He deserves so much more than what's been handed to him, and I would give anything, anything at all if he could only be happy.

The road is getting blurry despite the clear blue sky and it takes me a moment to connect the wetness on my face with the blurred yellow line through the windshield. With a curse I swipe angrily at the offending tears, blinking fiercely and staring hard at the road just past the front fender. Jesus, only Sammy can make me cry just by staring out a fucking window. I'm almost afraid to sneak another look in case he witnessed my little estrogen flash and is waiting with a forced smile and a snide comment.

I needn't have worried, for he is still immersed in his own private hell, totally oblivious to both me and the Indiana countryside as it flashes past the windows. I suppress a sigh and turn my attention back to the road. I can't help but wonder just how much further we can go before the end, before it all catches up with us and we can no longer make the struggle back to our feet. I wonder if this is what it is to be a hero.

Seventeen miles down the road a road sign catches my attention, weather-beaten and faded, it's words barely distinguishable, but enough to offer a small flash of memory I'd thought long forgotten. There is no hesitation as I steer the Impala off the interstate onto a smaller county road. Sam shoots me a curious glance but stays quiet and I am thankful for small miracles. I don't think I could go through with this if I had to explain it aloud. We drive on in silence for a few more minutes, Sam continues to stare out the window but I can see that I have piqued his interest.

He manages to last for another few miles before he asks if we are out of gas. Not quite Sammy-boy. He tries again, wondering if maybe I was so desperate for a hamburger I felt like checking out what the diners of rural Indiana have to offer. Nope, not that either. The look he is giving me now is somewhere between suspicion and concern and I have to work hard to keep the smirk off my face. He'll figure it out soon enough, but the longer I can draw out the surprise, the better.

It takes him until we pull off a dirt road into the field-turned-parking-lot before he really understands our destination, and the look on his face as he reads the sign aloud is priceless.

"Rockton World's Fair? Dean, what the hell?"

I can't help the grin that works its way onto my face as I sit in the Impala surrounded by beat up pickups and rusty jalopies. Just beyond the admission gates I can see rickety temporary grandstands peaking up over the trees and I can hear the screams of people taking their chances on the few rides scattered about the field.

"Dean, dude, seriously are you feeling okay? You're grinning like an idiot in the middle of some farmer's field. You wanna let me in on the joke here."

I pop open the door and stretch my legs before answering him. "Time's a wasting Sammy, we won't get much done with you standing there with your mouth hanging open like a fish all day."

His mouth closes with an audible click and he slowly extracts himself from the car. As he straightens to his full height he does a slow turn, taking in his surroundings. He's tense still, like he's expecting something to crawl out from under the rows of pickup trucks and attack us. His eyes are dark and a little bit worried as he meets my gaze over the roof of the car. "Did you get more coordinates? Any idea what we're dealing with here?"

I pull out my wallet and check to make sure we have enough cash before making my way towards the gate. I can sense Sam hesitating behind me and I know he's got to be confused that I didn't even pick up the .45. I'm halfway to the gate and he's still standing beside the car so I turn slightly to egg him on. "Yo, Sammy, you coming or what?"

That seems to snap him out of it and begins to jog in my direction. I start to turn away with a nod, intent on the admission gates and the sounds of the midway beyond but I am pulled up short as Sam's hand grabs my arm to stop my forward progress and he swings me around to face him.

"Dean, damnit. Talk to me. What's going on?"

Damn him. He's lowered his voice into that soft, earnest timber he uses when he wants to tug on your heartstrings and I can feel the big brother in me responding to his change in tone automatically. But even as I turn to make some smart remark over his concern, my words die on my lips when I get a good look at his face. He looks about five years old, his green eyes wide and scared as he asks me for the third time what we're doing here in the middle of nowhere, reminding me that somewhere under the twenty-three year old Sam there's a five year old Sammy lurking. It's all I can do not to pull him into a hug right there and tell him everything will be all right, but I know that would end up scaring Sam more, and all I want right then is to get that look off his face.

"You're telling me College Boy hasn't figured it out already? We're going to the fair, Sam. It's all right there on the sign, midway rides, games, cotton candy and," I let a wicked grin slide onto my face, "demolition derby. I hear these things are supposed to be fun. You do remember fun right?"

He rolls his eyes and suddenly he's Sam again. "I can see that we're at a fair, Dean. Why are we at the fair? Did you hear something from Dad?" There is an absurd amount of hope in his voice as he asks about Dad and for the first time I begin to doubt myself for bringing us here.

"No, Sammy, I didn't." I turn away, not wanting to see his face fall, to see the anger there. "I figured it would be nice to do something fun for once." _Something normal_.

"So there's nothing here? No spirits, no demons, no shape shifters? Not even a fae?" His voice holds something like disbelief and I can almost see the thoughts flicking through his head as he tries to sort it out, "You just -- what? You had a sudden urge for cotton candy? Dean, what about Dad? What about the --" He breaks off suddenly, noticing the people milling about the parking lot and lowers his voice. "What about the hunt, Dean? Saving people, killing evil and all that. We don't have time for this."

"It's a night off, Sam. Just one. It wouldn't kill you to have some fun once in awhile. In fact it might actually be good for you, so I'm exercising my Big Brother privileges here and making an executive decision."

"I'm twenty-three, Dean, not six. I can plan my own play dates, thanks. Who died and left you in charge?"

"Me, big brother. You, little brother. That means I pick the entertainment and you get to live with it. Besides, I've got the keys. So you're welcome to wait at the car if that turns your crank, I'll be in the beer tent when you feel like having fun."

I can feel Sam's eyes on me as I walk away from him again, once more heading for the old man manning the admission's gate. He follows me this time, eyes narrowed suspiciously, as I fork over the cash required for admission for two and the man directs us towards the midway ticket sales kiosk. I am replacing extra bills in my wallet and trying to decide which activity to look into first when I hear Sam mutter "Cristo" behind me. Well that tears it.

"What did you just say?"

"Nothing. Had a tickle, just clearing my throat." Goddamn, he's perfected his innocent look.

"Right. And what exactly would you have done if I went all projectile vomiting on your ass? Seriously dude, are we that fucked up that a trip to the county fair sends up warning flags of demonic possession?"

He has the grace to look slightly ashamed at that and scuffs a little at the dirt with his toe before responding, "Jeez, Dean, what the hell else was I supposed to think? You haven't given me a straight answer all day, we've barely slept in the last twenty-four hours and if you want the cold hard truth you're acting even more unhinged than usual. You expect me to believe that you just spontaneously decided to unwind at the local county fair? You've never even _been_ to a county fair. You don't think any of this counts as --"

"Yes, I have."

"Yes you have what?"

"I've been to a county fair. Once. When Mom was pregnant with you." That stops him cold, and his expression changes instantly from annoyance to concern.

"Oh. I never knew…"

"I know. I just…I was driving and thinking about what you said in Fitchburg, about…well you know…" I have his attention now, and the look on his face is one I haven't seen often, hovering somewhere between concern and sympathy. My first instinct is avoidance and withdrawal, but I started us down this path the moment I turned the Impala off the interstate and it's too late to back out now.

"When I saw the sign for the fair I thought that maybe it would be…that maybe we could…I mean, I know it doesn't make up for anything or anything but…I just…thought that maybe it would be good for us to do something…normal for a change." _Because enough is enough and we need to bend before we break and I can't keep watching you wear that look on your face anymore and maybe its selfish but god damnit I just want a chance to hangout with my brother without fearing for our lives._

He meets my eyes then, and I can see that he understands. Understands all of it, even the words I couldn't bring myself to say out loud. His eyes start to mist a bit and he breaks eye contact quickly, looking down at the ground. "Dean, man, I…"

"Dude, don't think I won't toss you head first into a cow patty if you finish that sentence with anything sappy."

There's a snort and a punch and when he looks back up it seems like some of the demons are gone for the moment and I can't ask for anything more so I hook an arm around his neck and steer him in the direction of the grandstands. "If you think we're done with the Oprah moments here, maybe we could mosey on over to the beer gardens before the derby starts, huh?"

A few beers later we're settled in the grandstand and Sam has just bought a cotton candy that is easily the size of a small child and he's grinning like an idiot and practically bouncing in his seat as we wait for the first of the demolition cars to drive into the arena.

_If it means anything, sometimes I wish you could too._

I know its twenty-three years too late and it can't even begin to make up for the years of lost innocence; lost opportunities, but I can't help thinking that maybe, just maybe, there's some hope left for us if only Sammy will smile like this again.


End file.
